Monday, August 10, 2015

"It's time to undo Rahim." -Nadia Hashimi, "The Pearl that Broke Its Shell"

The day started
with the rhythmic ticking of a clock. Tick, tock, tick tock. My
eyes flicked from the job application form I was filling out, to the rustic
grandfather clock that stood proudly in my newly inhabited apartment, 11-04.
I so graciously accepted an apartment floor that was uncomfortably close
to the renovation of the fourteenth floor. From my position at one
of the foldout chairs that occupied random spots of the apartment, I studied
the thick layer of dust resting on the clock's face. It was quite an old
clock, one of the few items I brought back from Warsaw, my family's
hometown in Poland. As I scanned the rest of the furniture that was
settled, rather precariously, from the waste bin piled high with Chinese
takeout cartons, to the unorganized cutlery that lay in a box on the moth eaten
floor, I realized I had yet to make this into a home. Still, one aspect
of my living situation was quite nice; I lived alone. Moving away from
Poland from a strictly-Catholic-thankfully-English-speaking-household felt very
satisfactory. I don't feel so secure to label the move as much more than
a chance to break my habit of..dishonesty? No. Not dishonesty.
Pretending is more accurate. Hardly an opportunity, as I lacked the
one component for this to qualify as an opportunity. Simply put, I lacked
money.

Which is why, from a bird's eye's view, I can be seen impatiently filling out
paperwork to work as a bartender at Hot Legs, as I am desperate for green
stuff. I dreaded applying for a job that requires a degree, as my wall is bare. The moment I turned eighteen, after several months of doing
neighborhood chores to save for a plane ticket, I left the cold winters of
Poland for the promising warmer weather in Collingwood. And promising it
has been, I think, as I view the sunny weather from my dusty window. The
sound of my pen dropping onto the floor awakens me from my ever deepening
thoughts. Spacing out seems to be happening more and more to me these
days. Not taking my eyes off the window, I reach down and pick up my pen.
A quick glance at the clock lets me know I have been sitting in the
same position for the past hour and a half. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Screw it. Releasing my grip on the pen yet again, my thoughts moved
elsewhere, the act of spacing out retaking its place.

Tick,
tick, tick tock. Nostalgia was triggered. I could feel my eyes
glazing over as my eight year old self was brought to mind. Sitting in my
third grade classroom, listening to the ticking of the clock, I
pondered usually deeply for an eight year old girl. Although, at the
time, I could not bring myself to identify as any sort. My identity, who
I was...I did not know. Perhaps these questioning thoughts could be
associated with the teenage stage of life, where teenagers struggle to come to
terms with their self-identity, but surely not with a pre-pubetic child.
Today, as I am fully aware of myself, I am also aware of what I need,
which translates into working at a gay bar.

As I get up from my impromptu chair, and
cross over to the window, I squint, as the impending sunshine enters my
eyesight. From my view, I can barely see a statue, and what looks to
be...a bra? A bra. A bra on the statue. This is an unpleasant
reminder, as I look down at my scarcely dressed self. I sigh.
Unrealistic. Impossible, maybe. A bartender's salary brings
few luxuries; certainly not the luxury of ridding one's self of a bra...